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The Fifties, Gaia, and the Pumpkin Woman
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18504 |
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Section : |
THE ARTS
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| Issue
Date : |
4 / 1991 |
606 Words |
| Author
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Linda L. Holt
Linda L. Holt is a nationally published poet who lives in
Bordentown, New Jersey. |
24 Hrs./NYC/1957
First I smelled toast, then
I thought of Arlene Francis.
Back home, we ate cold cereal and
listened to the TV set in the next room.
Here, they played "Just Walkin' in the Rain,"
Serving hot toast with lumps of jelly that slid off
the cool knife in one lubricous stroke.
The night before, we strolled Times Square,
And a man from the campaign bandstand
placed in my mittened hand
A "We like Ike" button, and a different
Man brushed by and left me with one that said,
"Adlai E. Stevenson," which
I promptly (because I had never heard of him)
pinned on my coat. My father
(my father, the veteran) laughed, "They'll
Shoot you if you wear that!" and,
being 10, with so many years to live,
I put it in my pocket, a talisman.
I recall a sign that blew rings of pale blue smoke and
A black man with teeth all gold who
Stitched my name in green embroidery thread
on a white cap and laughed for no reason.
Outside the Claridge window, a plane perched
on a roof: a promotional ikon.
My mother bought me a souvenir book of color photos
(one dollar at the Sunray Drug):
The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the
George Washington Bridge. Over and over again, I ran my palm
across the greasy laminated jewel-blue sky.
At night--my first and only night in
...
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